Conc

sink your broad blunt metal tooth into
dirt and stones and later rocks and clay
disregard birds chirps and swells of nearby vehicles
rumbling and washing past, out of sight

mouthfuls of mud split and tumble beneath my weary steel,
rocks clang woefully when struck pinning grief to me
much as sweat pins my clothes to unwashed skin
blisters develop relentlessly as friction dictates
the relationship between hands and wooden shafts

face equally salty and sticky but tears are responsible
some drip after running their course of cheeks and chins
finding a home amongst clay infused mud, thick like brownies
part of me will go with you.

tooth no longer sinks easily, winter scares even steel
vaguely rectangle hole looks surprisingly inviting, but small.
cardboard box with lion chocolate bar branding embellished upon it
is placed as carefully as i’ve ever placed anything

so carefully placed.

All your waffle are belong to me.

Gravel was spurting outwards from the partially deflated tyres of the vehicle I was piloting, as we ate up miles of mountain passes in a terrifying fashion. The scenery was beautiful, sheer cliffs in hues of yellow, orange and red, the sky, a few shades lighter than cobalt blue, absent of any clouds whatsoever. Despite there being an obvious heat hanging locally, provided by the dominant sun, the wind gushing in from the windows either side seemed to entirely negate this, still, I was uneasy and couldn’t begin to appreciate the surroundings in which I was situated.

I’m not sure exactly how I ended up in this position, the driver’s seat of a sprinter van; my identification of such a vehicle owing to the Mercedes Benz emblem scratched and slightly dulled, but still shining, from the middle of the wheel I was steering. Like I said, I wasn’t sure how or why, but I had the distinct feeling that I was escaping from strange men with guns, or maybe that was just a movie I had watched once about an escape from the mountains of Ecuador, I just didn’t know. Regardless, I was scared; both of navigating the very dry dusty roads in long wheel-base with my clunky gear changes and the very fact my usually inexplicably accurate memory, was failing me. Sitting beside me on the seldom used cloth bench seat was a girl holding a slightly frosty expression, her name, Jessica.

Petite with chocolate brown hair, tied up presumably to keep it out of the way, bits were dripping down where she had tied it hastily, she possessed deep hazelnut eyes, the kind that when looked into, would kind of take hold of you for a second. Sunglasses, now with added mountain-dust sheen, hanging from a white tank top which showcased sun kissed arms. Her plain tan shorts, two sea-shell bracelets’ (one on either wrist) and worn sandals finished out her outfit. Probably not the most suitable for the task of escaping gun-toting men, but come to think of it, I didn’t fare much better in the clothing stakes. I wore a blue button-up shirt and jeans, naturally faded, which had crudely been hacked in half, about half way up. It seems I had then rolled them up a bit further, so my knobbly knees jutted out below the rolled section and the obvious, to me, hacking was obscured from view. I had on my feet black doc-martin style boots, laced up awfully, but no socks, definitely no socks, this meant my feet were sweating hideously, probably contributing to the noticeable clunks in gear change; I’d certainly have regretted this decision of wear, if I remembered making it that is. In the back, Jess reported, as she leant over the board separating the cabin from the load bearing area, we had two bicycles, 3 large drums of what we gathered was fuel, a bucket of lemons and a bucket of rice.

I had no idea where we were going and neither did Jess, her memory was just as hazy not that it was ever exceptional, we figured that we should just probably keep going, stopping only occasionally to refuel. It was quite the difficult task despite our abundance of fuel, eventually managing to somehow pour fuel from a drum into a jerry-can and then into the tank through a leaky red funnel found beneath the bench seat. After this ordeal the ice on her face was beginning to thaw and rather than continue to question what the hell was actually going on, we opted to just proceed with what we thought we must do. It could have been a matter of our lives and this was something I certainly wasn’t going to risk, for me or for her.

After a few days of lemons and uncooked rice, we reached a small hotel of sorts, I mean, it may not have been your usual check in-check out affair, but at least we managed to come to an agreement with the owners; A room for the night and a deliciously hot meal, I had no idea if it would be delicious by traditional standards but our standards were currently low, in return we would give up a couple sacks of our lemons and rice. That night I remember having my first really nice moment with Jess. Our room was small, among the things crammed into it; a tiny 14” television and VCR, resting on a rickety wooden table; beside the TV an odd assortment of VHS tapes seeming to span every language but English; lastly and perhaps most noticeably, in the middle of the tired single bed a blue paper-back book of French girls’ names. I didn’t take much stock of this despite it stealing my initial attention, quickly swinging my head back towards Jess who was inspecting the selection of tapes. After much deliberation and perhaps some slight bickering, we settled for some strange Italian film I couldn’t recall the name of even if I tried.

Some time passed and it seemed my unlikely companion wasn’t able to bear the Italian dialogue, clearly quite agitated she rose to her feet and began swinging open the doors to each of the few cupboards in the room she had not previously explored, to her delight and my more subdued surprise, she had found a small fridge hidden inside one of the cupboards, it held only enough space for two tiny shelves; even so, inside on the upper shelf was a small slice of chocolate cake on an immaculate glass dish, I acted as if I wasn’t overly interested in her discovery, I’d let her have this one. I didn’t know how long we’d be together and despite her quirks I wanted to keep her as content as I could, things would be easier that way. After these thoughts passed she then sat back down next to me, cross-legged, grinning ear-to-ear; I was lying on my front propped up by my elbows pretending to be engrossed in the film; what came next is what surprised me. She began forcing her fork through the cake until a piece of that precious slice came loose and rested on the fork, then without prompt, held it slightly awkwardly out to me and stumbled over the words, “Would you like some cake, Archer?”

I’ve never been sure what it was about that moment, but I will never forget it, it’s the moment I might have fallen for her.

The sand spilt into formation below my parched feet; it was as if a cruel deity had placed me there to trudge through this desolate place to ensure hourglasses the world over would continue to trickle through the weight of my footsteps. It seemed like the sun was also playing its part, bearing down on my shoulders and glaring into my eyes if I dared to face it. This fiery beast toyed with the air, eliminating any humidity that showed its presence, leaving the breath encircling my lips thin; I found myself gasping intermittently in a half-witted attempt to force any remaining oxygen on a course into my lungs to be harvested.

Beads of sweat had been forming all day, mostly on my tender chest below the tattered robes that rested on and about me, latterly many of these beads had sought partnership and began coalescing and as a result permeating and saturating parts of my garments. This saturation provided an occasional chill in stark contrast to this torrid place, but I wasn’t sure that I welcomed it; it perhaps encapsulated hope, one that I probably should have forgone some time ago; even so, I marched on with whatever conviction I could muster.

To aid me in bringing about the fall of the next dune in sight, I dreamt up a euphoric soundtrack. Chants and softer swelling vocal notes emerged at the forefront of the soundstage, delirious they were; yet the most beautiful thing I had fancied in a long long time. Drums pulsed in a somewhat tribal fashion, they succumbed to the beat of my soles and in places they surfaced slightly ahead, urging me onward. A plethora of strings filled the rest of the void which, I felt, must be eliminated; full-bodied acoustic guitars provided lush strummed surges as petite ukuleles danced over the arrangement with as much reckless abandon as children embracing torrential monsoons.

But it was these feathery vocals that seemed to hang and rise so majestically which gave me the most stimuli, they provoked thoughts of my youth and inspired my once near defeated body to replicate the boy I once was; my heart allowed itself to pound without even considering arrest, adrenaline rushed to my limbs and took control. For the next few hours I frolicked over the sand, with my elated state and blithe accompaniment I would careen over the sand waves listlessly, if I fell, I was convinced that the song demanded it, it was a break in the beat and one which dictated I get down and wriggle in the grains before getting up, dusting myself off, and continuing on.

After some time, night fell. It was brief respite from the heat and glare. An hour or so after the sun departed, my soundtrack with it, I almost wished for the former to return and certainly the latter. The only comfort I now had was some slight warmth the sand retained, but this would not linger forever, the bitter chill of the air would see to that; as it saw to the sweat-patched robe clinging to my seasoned skin. The formation of beads was replaced by unrelenting shivers, which were instigated in my core and branched out to every fibre of my being. After some time I resorted to assuming the position of a frightened child, clasping my now adrenaline-free legs which ached miserably with wiry arms which shared much of the same feeling, on a slightly smaller scale. I began to rock to and fro, only able to hold a thought for perhaps seconds now, the cold was all consuming and it would not hold up. In a moment of despair I wondered to myself what I desired most at this moment; water, warmth or death; and as a surprise to maybe even myself I might have chosen death.

M.W. - 20.01.2010

messersmasterful:

Sometimes, we are all just children lying on our weary backs, casting our eyes up at the stars. I think that we wish that somehow we could capture a little more of those celestial blips than just their tiny light which reaches our dainty pupils; I think we could be friends given the chance. As the minutes and grass stains accumulate on our faces and our backs, we sometimes grapple with a number of thoughts that flit from place to place; some pass at such a pace as to avoid any real thought at all. Some of these thoughts though, they linger, and in the same fashion as we attempt to in the night’s sky, we try and make connections and patterns in a way that makes them mean something more, in a way which will leave them in us in the morning. After we have dispensed with the formalities of showers, electric tooth-brushes and cereals with meagre portions of milk, we’ll be able to draw these thoughts enticing as they have proven to be, from the memory banks we peruse on occasion, and put them to work once more. This time perhaps instead of constructing constellations we’ll instead try and mesh together these thoughts into a string of once solitary letters, who have come together to author a horror story or if lucky a story of love. Sometimes I think that if we came together more often, we could be something more.

M. W.
19/1/10

Rancid, oranges
and browns
and murky yellows;

Paired
with blacks, dense,
and sometimes
multiple greys.

Snow is piled high
both on
and in
bonnet and boot.

Where humans once sat,
wiry sprung frames are
all that remain
in place.

Gear stick, stuck
in place
forever
it will not shift, but
sticks up from the body
defiant.

Wheel has been
decorated with blisters and
bubbles and
has drooped a bit.

Painted panels
now close ranks and ripple
to shroud the
identity of the
fire-
starter.

Ashes to ashes,
rust to rust.

17/1/10
m.a.w

Why is it
that you seem to
hate people who have
fat enhanced thighs and
little round eyes
oblivious
to it?

Is it because
one of them
managed to
buy all the sweets
from that little shop
on the corner
that one day in June
when you were next in line?

All you got
was half a loaf
of white, half a loaf
of grain and not even
half a cup of sugar
to take home to mother,
how mean.

Maybe
just maybe, it’s
that man who’s sweat
lingered
the whole flight over
with spilt
second-course gravy
on his brown shirt.
He said, “I’m sorry,
for the mess”

But
i don’t think you
ever believed that
and all things considered
that’s fair enough,
i suppose.

16.1.10.M.W

i lv lmp

br& nizzle

When i was a kid
and my hair was short,
sloping unevenly at the front
and sprouting like a lettuce
at the crown, my glasses and i
were inseparable.

Big and bulbous they lazily
rested on my little nose,
disproportionately,
and in the process left me
a little bug-eyed,
but my vision sharp.

They would accompany me
to quaint children’s
birthday parties
and more seriously
on outings to the park;
football shirt, shorts
and studded boots,
which clicked and clacked on the pavement,
were also mandatory.

Occasional 4-eyes references
occurred whilst at school,
they didn’t phase me,
i was more preoccupied with
evading the teachers
by talking under my breath
and when a more sly method
was called for, communicating with kicks
under the chewing-gummed tables.

Sometimes in fits of boisterous
boyish activities, arms would snap,
lenses would crack, but no matter.
Sellotape would right any wrong,
at least until
i would again meander
up the streets followed by mother’s
panic’d shouts,
to attend the opticians.

When i stopped being a kid,
i stopped wearing the
circular contraptions,
they were a burden.
With the realisation
that they should be cared for
i sat them in their case,
lined with soft cloth,
and never took them out again.

15/1/10 mw

messersmasterful:

It was by pure chance that you ended your evening
with a trip to my residence.
I knew immediately that you were a sweet little thing,
your silhouette gave you up
in the dim lights that accompanied the
dulcet tones
wafting from my tannoy floor-standers;
Your company would be
most welcome this evening.

Formalities were dispensed with
and we skipped ahead
to the part
where you left my lips
stained with cherry and
a little fizz
somersaulting
through me wildly.

BARR Cherryade - refreshing the nation.

MW
14/1/10

Tautou

Metallic make-up drips about your;
arches, half-moon, slightly rusty
but boldly flaring outwards; doors,
bordered with blistering rubber,
panel shine however, persists; canopy,
slightly dulled, by persistent sky
leaks and sun leaks from between clouds,
even so, largely structurally intact.

Keys adorned with a crack-laden remote,
slip neatly into the sturdy ignition barrel.
Once cranked round about twice, body twitches,
a grumble emerges from up front, followed by
a sweeping surge of horses being awoken;
i tremble as cued by the tired black-leathered
electronic recliner i have commandeered
for purposes unknown this evening.

I combine twists and presses to calibrate
you, to every whim i have, which you can address.
Soon, the heat is rising, as my foot is hovering
above the anchor pedal. I shift, first into drive, then
onto the loud pedal. With the most sordid depression
horses erupt and i leave a slice of my tyres to
congregate with the tarmac. Tumbling air cascades
in formation around your shell, as your heart is
propelling me into the dark.

This evening i shall court you;
This is romance.

M.a.W
13.1.10